Blaze
by silverstep
Summary: Sad, mildly AU oneshot postseventh book. What do you really know about Blaise Zabini? What if there could be some good in the heart of evil? Warning: character death. sort of. Please R&R.


Blaze

_Live your life as an exclamation, not an explanation. – Anonymous_

Blaise Zabini had never been a mild-mannered child. He'd always known what he wanted, and by god, he'd get it. When he was happy, he was wickedly happy, and when he was angry, the whole world was his enemy.

When he'd first entered school, it had been no different. While the other students worried about how hard classes would be, and how they would make friends, Blaise focused on one thing, and one thing alone. Power.

When it had been his turn to be sorted, finally, he'd sauntered to the hat with curious confidence, and fiercely thought to it: "I want to be the most powerful…" and before he could even finish the thought, the hat bellowed out "SLYTHERIN!", and he'd smirked to know how proud his parents would be. Friends came easily to Blaise. He'd already met a few of the others outside of school- Draco's parents and his were quite close.

He had been nervous that first night, true enough. But the hat seemed to have picked the right house for him. Right off, he'd just…clicked.

When he returned home that summer, it was not so calm as he remembered it.

"Damn Fudge," his father would growl, pacing the study after reading the latest _Prophet_. "He's making a ruin of the country! Has no respect whatsoever for the old ways."

"The Dark Arts are so neglected now," his mother sighed.

"But mother," Blaise naively stammered, "they said at school that the dark arts are evil…"

His father had hit him then. Backhanded him across the face, hard enough to make his nose bleed, and stars to appear in front of his eyes.

"Never…" his father had growled then, "never…let me hear you say that in this house again. You tell me, Blaise…tell me how _their_ ways are any better. Tell me how good and pure they are. Tell me how innocent and justified that dammed Auror was when he killed my brother!" His father had been silent then, and sent him to his room.

Needless to say, he returned to school changed.

He developed a varacious appetite for reading, alternative publications, whatever was available, besides the Ministry-controlled drivel in the _Prophet_. Magazines, old articles, scattered news reports. And he began to loathe the world order he began to see, resented the overpowering authority of Fudge and his cronies with every fiber of his being.

Not that he was alone in this sentiment, mind you. Slytherin House was not noted as a hotbed of Ministry support. But few were as impassioned as Blaise. Never one to do things by halves, he began to research the spell work, as well. A knowing smile and a note from Professor Snape was all it took to gain access to books normally restricted to fifth years, much less second years.

He continued his studies well into his fifth year, remaining popular among the Sltyherin students. Popularity was never a concern for Blaise. He was good-looking: tousled dark hair, grey eyes, but it was more than that. He had the spark about him of someone who was going places, and it drew people to him, like moths to flame.

Fifth year was the year he dated Lucy, as well. He'd had a few girlfriends before Lucy, none of them serious, but Lucy was. She captivated him- her dark eyes were the most lovely thing he'd ever seen. With Lucy it was more than lust. They could talk for hours about absolutely nothing, and just laugh at the glory of being young, powerful, and in love.

It was no great surprise when Blaise, along with Draco, was one of the few selected for early induction into the Death Eaters. His mother had cried with happiness the day she found out the news. He had trouble swallowing the lump in his throat as she told him how proud she was of him, and his father had clapped him on the back.

Blaise was truly happy. He was fighting for a cause he believed in. It was hard, at times, to keep up the front. To not lunge at Dumbledore's smiling face. "Liar!" he wanted to scream. "Peace and happiness…except for the ones who desire true power. Except for the things we don't understand. Except for the one man who could truly bring the wizarding world into order again."

It had been sheer relief sixth year, when Snape had struck the final blow. Then the real fighting could begin.

It had all blurred to him from there. All one great smear of red and black. Always, always the fighting, and the running. He'd cried at first, but gradually his tears ran out. He could feel nothing anymore. Mum. Dad. Draco. Pansy. Every friend, every important person in his life fell, dead by an Auror's curse. He snarled, he cried, he swore, he bled, but above all else, he kept on fighting, kept on screaming curses through the bloody days, kept fighting. Because he couldn't let them have died for nothing. His hair grew lank and tangled, and his eyes took on the feverish cast of the haunted. He wanted it- wanted that victory so bad. So he could show the world. My Mum and Dad didn't die for nothing, you righteous bastards!

And then Lucy had died.

It was odd, he'd thought, standing with the screaming around him. Luce looked almost peaceful lying there. Her hair was tangled and her face had no makeup; hygiene was a thing of the past in war. But she was beautiful to him, lying there. And he whispered and told her so as he kissed her one last time.

He found out later Lucy wasn't the only one. Potter had finally fulfilled his destiny, and his Lord was dead. He had cried then. Cried even as he descended into hiding with the remaining Death eaters.

He moved to California. Last place on Earth to look for a Death Eater. H rented a small flat, and worked in a coffee shop. His apartment was Spartan, his conversation at a minimum, his friends largely dead. For six months he subsisted on a barista's salary, did nothing but sit.

And watch.

For sure enough, the wizarding media had survived the war in full force. The pictures disgusted and horrified him. He took up a subscription to the Prophet under a false name, and he made himself look at the photographs of the Death Eater torture. But he also had his own memories. Pansy's screams from the interrogation block until they'd let her out, and the scars she'd bear eternally afterwards bore testament to the 'mercy' of the Aurors. So I was right and wrong? He found himself asking. Maybe it was just Fate's sick way of saying 'Haha, there is no right answer.'

For months he pondered this question, all the while keeping a low profile. He had no friends in this new hideout, but he liked it that way. His looks still drew admiring looks from coworkers, but it all seemed like he was on the outside looking in. He felt like his soul had been covered in third-degree burns. Too deep to feel any pain.

Then., one night, as he was going about his nightly ritual of tequila, a photo had slipped from one of the boxes he'd never bothered to unpack. It was a shot of Lucy, of course. He'd taken it one night when they'd walked down by the lake. She was twirling like a ballerina, dancing in the moonlight, and laughing at nothing in particular. He'd cried then. Cried and cried and had more alcohol than was legal in most states.

And then he'd grabbed his wand and stormed down the stairs. He'd lost himself these last five months-hiding like a coward.

His baby gleamed out in the parking lot. Blaise knew exactly which one it was- the shinning silver creation of one of the hot-shot doctors who visited girlfriends- or mistresses- in this building. A Viper SRT10 Roadster. He felt his heart begin to beat again, racing with the old anticipation. He had always been a sucker for fast cars.

A whispered 'alohomora' took care of the lock and alarm, plus a few cute spells his cousin had taught him in his wilder days. Of course, they'd probably have the Californian branch of the wizarding police after him in a bit, but Blaise had stopped giving a damn.

He ran a loving hand over the butter soft leather of the seats and caressed the steering wheel like a master violinist touching his instrument. "Let's go down swinging, sweetheart," he whispered, and peeled wheels out of the parking lot. The streets were crammed, but Blaise was driving like a crazy man.

He roared his way onto the nearest highway, and cut a fast course towards the beach. Sure enough, he soon had no less than three police cars screaming after him, but their vehicles-while nice- were child's toys compared to his beauty. She ate highway at unearthly speeds, and the clouds, stars, and city lights all blurred into a stream of light and color he seemed to be leaving behind. The night air felt like a sweet benediction, and the sirens still trying to keep pace behind him sounded like music. He squealed into a sharp turn, and swung toward the coast.

He knew where he was going.

The cliffs were close now, he could see the sign screaming warnings. For the first time in three years he laughed. Laughed and laughed and laughed.

Then took his hands off the wheel, and kept his foot floored through the pedal as the cars slammed through the barrier and off into infinity. He loved them, he thought, as the ground sped ever closer. 'I did my best by them,' he thought, smiling. 'And if that's wrong, then fuck being right.'

The car's explosion was instant and glorious: a bloom of orange heat against a dark night sky.

It was mesmerizing in it's glory; the officers who squealed to a halt behind him stopped their cars to watch.

Perhaps that was why they missed the bronze-plumed bird that glowed to life from the wreckage. Perhaps that was why no one noticed as the phoenix gave a few experimental beats if his wings.

No one said good meant innocent.


End file.
